His Australian Heiress (16 page)

“Thank God for that.” For a split second she rested her head against his shoulder.

Over on the sofa, Carol, head in hands, was quietly sobbing.

“What's this got to do with you, Macmillan?” Simon cried, hot-faced and furious, unable to accept humiliation. All his so-called power and influence meant nothing, he realized. He had no power at all. Not like that bastard Macmillan.

Carol looked up. “Hello, Brendon,” she said piteously. Her eyes were mere slits from the crying, stinging, and swelling of her face.

Brendon took in her sad state, wanting to give Charlotte's cousin the thrashing he deserved. Carol's left cheek was a dull red. The swelling was around her eye. She would have a black eye by morning. “I'm so very, very sorry about this, Carol,” Brendon said, releasing a hard breath. He looked at Charlotte. “You might want to ring the police, Charlie. Report a domestic disturbance.”

“Oh . . . oh . . . please don't!” Carol cried out a desperate entreaty. She rose shakily to her feet. “I don't want any police here, Brendon. My parents would be terribly shocked. It's nearly Christmas.”

“Besides, there's no crime.” Unbelievably, Simon dismissed Carol's sad state. “I threw out my hand and inadvertently caught Carol's cheek.”

Brendon turned on him with a tightening of his muscles. He was totally disgusted with Simon Mansfield. He got a grip on the lapels of Simon's expensive jacket and then slammed him so hard up against the wall, the adjacent framed print fell down. “Were you going to hit Charlotte, too?” he asked grimly, looking like a man just waiting for the chance to lash out.

Simon found himself covered in sweat. “Of course not,” he spluttered. “I didn't touch you, did I, Charlotte?”

Brendon didn't remove his hands, or slacken his hold. “You need to back off, Mansfield. Back right off.”

“Okay, okay!” Simon knew he couldn't possibly pick a fight with Brendon Macmillan. His strength was far superior. As it was, Macmillan was just about lifting him off his feet.

“Apologize to Carol,” Brendon urged. “Tell her you will never bother her again.
Mean
it.”

Simon swallowed hard. “I'm sorry, Carol,” he muttered, his insides burning with humiliation. “It was an accident. I wouldn't hurt you for the world. I'll clear out now. I won't be coming back.”

Carol, who had crumpled under the cowardly attack, abruptly took charge. She was sickened and trembling. “See that you don't, or I'll take action against you, Simon. It will make the papers.”

“Think of the exposure, Simon,” Macmillan said in a mocking tone. “A strike against you. Some people will be delighted with that. You're not exactly popular around town.” He released Simon abruptly, watching him slump at his feet.

“You've been warned, Simon. Let this be an end to it.” Charlotte spoke quietly, but the message rang out, loud and clear.

“I'll see you to the door, shall I?” Brendon gave Simon a shove in the back.

Simon went quietly. Hatred was swelling in his chest and running down his arms. Hitting a woman had come as much as a shock to him as it had to Carol. His behaviour was getting out of control. He knew what he had to do. He had to keep his head down.

Charlotte spotted the bottle of Glenfiddich on the counter. In the galley kitchen, she found a glass, pouring a small measure of the whiskey into it and topping it up with a little water.

“I think you can do with a drop of this, Carol. No need to sip it. Get it down. It won't hurt you. We'll stay with you until you feel better.”

Carol took a large swallow of the whiskey, coughed a little, and felt the liquid run like fire into her stomach. “I bought it for Simon, you know,” she said, halfway between laughing and crying.

“He won't be bothering you again, Carol,” Brendon said. “Where are you spending Christmas?”

“With my parents,” Carol said. “I always spend Christmas with my parents. Christmas is for family, isn't it?”

“Yes.” Charlotte's answer was on the poignant side. She was thinking of the strangeness and the dysfunction of her own family, her parents taken so abruptly and violently away from her. She thought in that moment she had no one but Brendon, Brendon Macmillan, her defender. With no one else could she feel such a sense of
oneness
.

* * *

Brendon paid a visit to his parents' grand harbour side house the following balmy evening. He hadn't seen or spoken to his mother for almost a week. His father's cold case and his own affairs had kept him pretty well glued to his desk. He knew he would be expected for Christmas dinner, but he saw now he had to be with Charlotte, even if it meant hurting his mother.

The Christmas tree in the entrance hall looked wonderfully festive, decked out in multicoloured baubles. Brightly wrapped presents were piled at the tree's base. His mother hurried down the steps to greet him. She was wearing a blue dress, her favourite colour. She looked beautiful with a radiant smile on her face. The smile made
such
a difference.

“Darling, how lovely to see you!” she cried, her slender arms outstretched.

Brendon moved forward, producing his own smile. He bent his head to kiss his mother on both cheeks. As always, she was wearing a sweet, light perfume. “Lovely to see you, Mother.” His mother had always preferred “Mother” to “Mum,” though he often slipped up. This wasn't one of those days. His mother had a real gift for formality. “I thought I should call in. Dad has been keeping me busy.”

“He's so proud of you, Brendon,” his mother said. Her indulgent smile wrapped him in high favour. “We both are. I don't have to tell you how Sir Hugo dotes on you. We'll be having a few extras on Christmas Day. A couple of overseas guests. Not that I mind. I meant to tell you that you're very welcome to bring a special girlfriend along, if she's not spending the day with family. I know Lisa's family is still in London.”

For a minute Brendon was at a loss for words. “They're not due back until the end of January,” he said, finally. “Lisa is a special
friend
, Mother, but she's not my girlfriend. Not anymore. Lisa and I wouldn't work.”

“But, darling, I thought she was everything you wanted?” His mother stroked his arm.

“You're going to have to stop trying to marry me off.” Brendon tried to turn it into a joke.

“Brendon. Darling, I want to be able to hold my first grandchild in my arms. I want to kiss its sweet little face. A boy first, I hope, and then a daughter. Come into the living room. Would you like a cold drink? I won't offer alcohol, as you're driving. We Macmillans have to be doubly careful not to besmirch our reputation.”

“I'm fine, thank you.” Brendon took the bit between his teeth. He said without preamble, “I know you'll be disappointed, but I need to tell you that I have other plans for Christmas dinner.”

His mother swung back, staring at him as though his decision was about as hurtful as one could get. Indeed, her expression was so angry at the idea of his defection, for an instant Brendon didn't know who this lissome, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman could be. “What are you saying?” she asked, implying he was being dreadfully disloyal and disrespectful.

Brendon had to marvel at how he had cut his mother's apron strings so early. He waited until his mother was seated, straight-backed, no slumping. “I think you know how fond I am of Charlotte,” he said, taking an armchair on the opposite side of the large, circular French-lacquer cocktail table. On it sat a large crystal vase filled with beautiful, scented red roses, a few art books, and a pair of Meissen crested cockatoos, enamelled in pinks and yellows perched on blue and green tree stumps. They had been a gift to his mother from his father a few years back.

“Oh, Charlotte!” Olivia Macmillan's entire face had tightened. She threw up a dismissive hand. “You surely aren't going to tell me you want to spend Christmas Day with
her
?”

“I do. Charlotte is on her own. She has an appalling family who has never shown the slightest interest in her. In many ways, she's the poor little rich girl.”

“I believe she has scores of friends,” Olivia scoffed. “Can't she join any one of them for Christmas dinner? Better yet, I've heard on the grapevine that she is providing Christmas dinner for a number of her little charities. She could surely join them?”

Brendon realized he had to come to the point. “Why do you hate Charlotte?” he asked. “You've always hated her, even when she was a little girl.”

“
Hate
her! What nonsense. I rarely think of her,” Olivia imparted.

“Not true. I've always sensed, even as a boy, you disliked Charlotte. You never tried to take her under your wing, a simple kindness. That was as unfathomable to me then as now.”

Olivia coloured a little. “Been talking to your father, have you?”

“Is there some reason why I shouldn't?” Brendon countered. “Dad and I are close. We talk, or at least we try to, every single day.”

“You must tell me sometime what about,” Olivia said with some sarcasm. “Your Charlotte is her
daughter
.” A dark shadow fell over her face as she said it.

Now they were getting to the crux of the matter, Brendon thought. “When she was younger, she was all Mansfield,” he pointed out.

“The colouring was only camouflage. She's Alyssa,” Olivia muttered through clenched teeth.

“She's
not
Alyssa,” Brendon said quietly, but firmly. “She's Charlotte, her own person. She's beautiful. She's outstandingly clever. She's compassionate and caring, a little bit of a firebrand, I admit. To my mind she's a truly exceptional woman.”

“I would shove Charlotte Mansfield completely out of your mind, Brendon,” his mother advised, her eyes fixed on him. “She's trouble.”

“You can say that when you don't even know her?” Brendon asked, keeping to a level tone.

“I know she has the same kind of power as her mother. She turns men's heads,” Olivia spoke in near despair.

“Isn't that likely to happen with beautiful women? I'm sure you've turned heads yourself, Mother.”

Olivia inclined her glossy dark head. Not strictly beautiful, Olivia Macmillan was a striking-looking woman, if on the severe side.

“Only
I
know how to control myself. I know how to behave, how to live an honourable life. You can say I'm a role model for my generation. I didn't sleep around. I didn't steal other women's men.”

“And you are saying Alyssa did?”

“That was the general opinion,” Olivia said with a little moue of disgust.

“Your opinion, Mother. Only there's no truth behind it.”

“I can't speak of her infidelity!” Olivia exploded. “I've pledged to forget it. Forgive.”

Brendon's answer was quiet, even compassionate. “It's all very well to say that, Mother, but you're not by nature a forgiving person. In any case, there is nothing to forgive. Despite the years Dad has denied the charge, you can't leave it alone. You can't exorcise Alyssa from your mind. You can't even begin to acknowledge you might have been wrong.”

“Well, men always stick together, don't they?” Olivia exclaimed bitterly. “After what you've had to say, Brendon, I'd like you to go.”

“Certainly, Mother.” Brendon stood up. “I'm sorry to disappoint you, but you'll have a house full of people. Charlotte has no one.”

Olivia gave a cry of near-anguish. “She wants to take you from me. I think I've always known she would. Just like Alyssa took Julian. Julian showed how much he loved me by betraying me. You are set to do the same. That girl could have any number of men. I've seen the way they look at her. The way you look at her. She wants
you
, my son. She doesn't care a jot about me. It's all happened before.”

Brendon felt his mother's pain, however abnormal, but he also felt compelled to say, “I think you should talk to a professional about this, Mum. You've allowed your jealousy of Alyssa to turn into an obsession. Charlotte doesn't even know my plans for Christmas Day. She'll be expecting me to be here with you and Dad and Granddad.”

“Don't you understand anything at all?” Olivia cried, her dark eyes deepening to almost black. “She wants
you
to spite me.”

Brendon felt a great upsurge of pity. “It's all in your head, Mum. I hate to see you so terribly upset. I feel sorry for you. I see now you could have been the one to set off all the rumours about Alyssa and Dad. Jealousy is a form of madness.” An idea erupted out of nowhere. “It
was
you, wasn't it?” he asked.

“What on earth do you mean?”

Brendon met his mother's burning gaze head-on. “I think Dad has long suspected the truth, but never confronted you knowing what pressure that would put you under.”

Olivia's face showed inner turmoil. Her voice sank to a whisper. “What if I did?” she admitted. “It was my only defence. I adored Julian. He was my whole life. I thought he loved me like I loved him, only one evening I saw him and Alyssa talking quietly out on the terrace together. They were facing one another. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but I could make out the look on my husband's face. I wasn't misled. Julian has never looked at me like that, not before or since. That woman stole my happiness. Mark my words, her daughter will betray you.”

Brendon was totally unconvinced. “You don't know Charlotte at all. You don't know anything about her. It's easier to blame Dad than blame yourself.” On edge, he continued, “Charlotte's parents are dead. Their car veered off the mountain and crashed into the valley below. Maybe they
were
arguing; they were arguing earlier. Maybe it got out of hand. But what were they arguing about? You don't see the role you played in that, Mum? You don't see that your truths were no more than sick imaginings. The Mansfields died too young. Charlotte lost her parents. She was orphaned.”